Because the hardest part is to think of a title.

Am I the only one

to see the darkness in your eyes,

to feel the hatred in disguise,

to hear the noise inside your head

that punctures walls and words unsaid,

to linger more each passing day,

and pick up thorns you throw away,

to bridge the gap, to fill the void,

to build the walls that were destroyed,

to find the sun within your night

and bathe you with this unseen light,

to crush your dreams and break your heart

and keep the pieces of your world

torn apart

And so I ask, am I the one

or am I just another

work undone?

The air I breath is toxic

no where to escape,

trapped.

Your words are bullets

they’re coming directly at me.

I’m not made of steel they’re 
going through me.

The way I feel is indescribable

So I pick up the pen and

write because what I have 
to say is stuck in my throat but 
not in my pen.